A Dribble of Drabbles - Crash and Burn
by The Moss Stomper
Summary: A collection of 100-word drabbles centered around the Sector 7 plate drop. Each drabble is a self-contained mini-fic. They all share the same theme, but they're not necessarily directly connected.
1. Phantom Pains - Reno

**Phantom Pains**

* * *

Reno holds up his hand, flexes his fingers. Two of them broke once; an injury erased from existence ten minutes later by a Cure, as if it never happened.

One of those fingers once pushed a button.

He touches his clavicle, broken by Lockhart's fist; runs his fingers along the slash of a giant sword, over holes punched through him by a hail of bullets – nothing but ghosts in his head, now. He looks up at Midgar's jagged ruins.

Scars that aren't there, a city destined for destruction anyway. It should be easy to pretend it never happened.

If only.


	2. Smoke and Mirrors - Tifa

**Smoke and Mirrors**

* * *

The first time Tifa saw him, she knew he would make a mess of her life. He had waltzed into her bar with the smile of a rogue, oozing wit and uncouth charm.

This is what she remembers as she stares him down beneath the plate of Sector 7. Once again, he faces her with a smile. Faces all three of them, weapon in hand, clad in the suit of the enemy, next to the button he threatens to push.

Yes, she had known he would mess up her life… but never had she guessed it would be like this.


	3. A Fistful of Regrets - Jessie

Warning: blood and injury in this one.

* * *

 **A Fistful of Regrets**

* * *

Jessie had been so angry. When AVALANCHE gave her anger a purpose, she'd been _ready_.

She'd known it was dangerous. She'd known it could lead to trouble. And… she'd had no idea what that actually meant. She hadn't realized people would die.

Jessie tries to take a breath, but the air won't go in. She coughs and sputters, tastes metal on her tongue. The blood that wells out of her wound warms her stomach, but the rest of her feels cold.

She hadn't realized people would die. She hadn't realized she might die, too.

Too late now. No takesies backsies.


	4. Vigil - Reno

**Vigil**

* * *

It's gloomy on the pillar platform. Night and day are meaningless here in the deepest shadow under Midgar's Sector 7, but it feels like night nonetheless. Down below, hundreds of mismatched roofs peek out of a sickly-green smog. Reno studies them, commits them each to memory.

Someone has to do it. The poor bastards below don't know what will hit them. The rich bastards above don't care.

He breathes too deeply and hacks out a cough; the memento of a childhood's worth of slum smog. He scoffs and pushes off the railing. Maybe he's doing them all a favor.


	5. Hard Feelings - Aerith

**Hard Feelings**

* * *

Aerith cradles her throbbing cheek. She glares at Tseng, the one who laid his hand on her, but he is kneeling over another. She has seen the red-haired one before, several times. If she tries, she might remember his name. He writhes and groans as his blood pools on the helicopter floor. Within minutes he will go still and quiet.

She could heal him. Some of his injuries are beyond her skills, but she could ease his suffering. Give him a few more minutes, even hours.

Aerith rubs the sting out of her cheek. She could, but she won't.


	6. A Matter of Luck - Rude

**A Matter of Luck**

* * *

"Think I've got any luck left?"

The voice coming through Rude's headset feels wrong. The calm of it seems out of place beneath Midgar's massive plate, where the whipping winds try to swat the helicopter cyclic from his hands. The calm doesn't gel with the job they have to do.

But Turks don't dwell on feelings. If they did, they'd never get anything done.

"You better," Rude says. "You owe me a drink."

"Guess that settles it. Can't let a buddy down."

The truth of it sinks to the pit of Rude's stomach. If it wasn't Reno, it'd be him.


	7. The Weight of a World - Barret

**The Weight of a World**

* * *

The winds are strong here, on the stairs up to the Midgar plate. If Barret were to stop and listen, he might hear voices among them, howling at him with all the rage of the wrongfully dead. So he pushes on, even though his lungs ache and his legs are on fire. He can't stop, won't stop. If he does, his world will be on fire, too. Just like the last one.

Barret leaps three steps with each stride, huffs curses with every breath. Maybe if he is quick enough this time, the howls of the dead will go silent.


End file.
